Perhaps
by mushsroomsandcucumbers
Summary: She did it. Molly Hooper did it. She noticed. She saw. She observed. She saw what he thought no one could see. She saw through his attempts to hide it. She saw … him. She saw the fear and the dread and the pain and the anger boiling inside him. She saw the sadness. No one else. Mid Reichenbach Fall onward. This is what I think happened.


I might die.

The thought ran around in Sherlock's head, seeking for an explantion, for acceptance but finding none.

Sherlock wasn't stupid, he was a genius and he knew it, so he knew, he knew that Moriarty might kill him. He knew that Moriarty might be better than him. He knew that he might die.

And it made him sad.

So so sad.

As he looked at John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, looked at what he would be leaving behind, dread filled him.

But he couldn't let them see, they couldn't see.

They didn't notice.

His possible imminent death was brought to the front of his mind as he looked down a test tube, he pushed it away, tried to concentrate on the glycerol molecule that he just couldn't pin down.

"I... owe...you." He whispered softly to himself, thinking about Moriarty's warning and what it meant.

"Glycerol molecule, what are you?" He muttered, forcing himself to concentrate again.

"What did you mean? "I owe you?" The question came from nowhere seemingly, because he didn't notice Molly was still standing beside him. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"You said, "I owe you." You were muttering it while you were working." Sherlock turned back to his scope, annoyed at letting himself slip like that, he intended to keep his worries to himself and now he was carelessly littering them.

"Nothing. Mental note." He brushed her off quickly, he couldn't tell Molly.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." Molly persisted. Sherlock had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, Molly was blabbering again, or at least she was about too. "No, sorry." She apologized, clearly embarrassed by her choice of words. He was going to have to stop this, he needed to concentrate.

"Molly please don't feel the need too make conversation. It's not really your area." He said, quickly and impatiently, but still she persisted. Where did she suddenly get this determination from? Sherlock watched from the corner of his eye as she cringed before continuing.

"When he was … dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

What Molly was saying intrigued him. It wasn't her usual mindless chatter or attempts at flirting. To Sherlock it felt like a new area of Molly being opened up, revealing a hidden depth that he always ,secretly, knew she had. Sherlock had looked into her past of course, deduced it as best he could, simply because he liked to know things, things that might prove useful. He knew her father was dead of course, but why was she bringing him up?"

"Molly," he warned again .

"You look sad... When you think he can't see you." Sherlock's eyes lifted from the microscope briefly and glanced over at John who was busy sorting some papers, before turning to look at Molly.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, to tell her to stop, but she carried on, "And don't just say you are because I know what that means... looking sad when you think no one can see you."

She did it.

Molly Hooper did it.

She noticed.

She saw.

She observed.

She saw what he thought no one could see. She saw through his attempts to hide it.

She saw … him.

She saw the fear and the dread and the pain and the anger boiling inside him.

She saw the sadness.

No one else.

Molly.

"You can see me."

"I don't count."

Sherlock tried to piece together his thoughts that had now been shattered by the pathologist in front of him.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." Molly flinched at her choice of words again.

"No, I just mean... If there's anything you need..." Sherlock watched, dumbstruck as she shook her head in frustration. "It's fine." she finished, finally giving up. Sherlock stood there, shaken by what she said.

"What – what – what could I need from you?" Sherlock stuttered. He never stuttered but this is what she had brought him too. She saw him, and now she's offered herself, offered everything she can give to him.

No one had done that before.

No one.

Not even John.

"Nothing, I don't know. You could probably say thank you actually."

"Thank you," Sherlock said hesitantly, still confused and yet in awe of his pathologist. Molly turned towards the door before stopping and looking back.

"I'm going to get some crisps. Do you want anything?" He opened his mouth to speak again but she beat him too it.

"No it's okay I know you don't."

"Well actually maybe I'll," began Sherlock looking confused.

"I know you don't."

Later on in his flat, Sherlock sat and thought. He didn't think about Moriarty. He didn't think about the doubts that Lestrade and his colleagues would no doubt be having. He didn't even think about his possible death.

He thought about Molly Hooper.

And he thought about what she saw.

He remembered how she looked, as she offered all she could give.

He remembered how she said she knew he didn't want anything.

He remembered how she _knew _him.

He remembered looking at her, into her, more deeply than he ever had before.

He remembered really seeing her.

He remembered seeing the concern in her eyes.

The absolute trust.

He remembered her saying she didn't count.

He remembered think how wrong she was.

Because she was wrong.

And maybe he hadn't realized it until now.

But Molly Hooper counts, just as much as John and Mrs Hudson.

Perhaps more.

Because she saw.

She saw when he needed someone too.

She saw.


End file.
